Harry Potter and the Tangled Mess of Bodies
by The Winter Wren
Summary: Upon killing his Uncle Vernon, 10-year-old Harry's journey into darkness is complete, but his journey into the wizarding world is just beginning. Despite Dumbledore's meddling, Harry receives his invitation to Hogwarts, and sets out to gain one simple thing: power. Of course, he has no idea of the dangers involved...or the secrets... Gray/Smart!Harry.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

Harry Potter was a scar-struck little boy, with eyes the color of the sea, and hair the color of the unobserved universe. Left on his aunt and uncle's doorstep at the ripe old age of one, he was immediately unwanted, and soon (after Petunia and Vernon realized how very strange he was) hated. Thus, his childhood was not a pleasant one. His first complete sentence (spoken at the precocious age of two) was "I am unloved." His favorite activity was playing alone in the corner with two sticks and a pine cone. His only "friend" was his cousin, who socialized through fists, not words. At first, Dudley was the one doing the talking, though before long, Harry was getting in the occasional statement—and later, it became hard to shut him up. Unfortunately, these habits translated into inappropriate behaviors at school; when Harry was five, he stabbed his classmate in the eye with one of his sticks, and forced his teacher to eat the pine cone.

Looking back, Harry thought that was probably the beginning of the end.

Harry's primary school years rushed by fast. While most parents cried at the thought of their children growing up, Petunia and Vernon dreamed of it.

"One glorious day," Petunia told a ten year old Harry dirtily, as she forced him to clean the toilet using his only toothbrush, "you're going to be eighteen and we'll be shot of you. How does that make you feel?"

"Unloved," said Harry, "not that I expected better. But why don't you just toss me in an orphanage, if you hate taking care of me so much?"

It was a bold question for an ten-year-old, particularly for an unloved ten-year-old without another home lined up, but Harry had learned what sort of questions he could and couldn't ask around the Dursleys. Questions about his parents? Those were to be avoided at all cost, else Harry found himself with triple chores for the week. Questions about his circumstances...those, well, they got no response, really. Petunia tended to clam up when he asked, which was fine by him; more minutes without hearing the woman's hateful voice were good minutes. And so sometimes, Harry asked questions like those to shut her up. Other times...though he was hardly willing to admit it to himself, he hoped for some sort of display of affection. Not that he ever received it.

This time, Petunia's mood was particularly bad. She slapped him across the face, and made him continue cleaning the toilet using just his tongue. Then he was banished to the cupboard under the stairs, which housed roaches and spiders and, oh yeah...Harry Potter, unwanted, unloved. But still hanging on to his capability _to_ love, just barely.

Just barely.

So fragile.

* * *

Consider the heart of an unloved child. It starts out full and pure. Brimming with capabilities that can't be put into words, things like reciprocity and happiness and the need to give and receive warmth. But that is before the child can understand that it is not wanted.

The feelings begin at birth, and then change or are maintained, under the influence of those close to them. Who was around Harry to help him? The batty neighbor, Mrs. Figg? To her, cats were like children, and children like cats. But Harry wasn't a child, nor was he even a cat. He was Mrs. Figg's flower, and her garden hadn't been tended to in years. Bursting with weeds, overgrown and messy...

If nurtured, flowers bloom. If neglected, flowers die.

* * *

June of Harry Potter's eleventh year—the June that his heart reached full blackness.

The birthday of Dudley Dursley was in June. So was the birthday of Piers Polkiss, Dudley's best friend. To celebrate, they were both going to the zoo, where they could gawk at the tigers and the gorillas and the slithery snakes. Harry wasn't supposed to go, he was supposed to stay at Mrs. Figg's and be a good little boy, but then Mrs. Figg broke her leg and Harry was in the car and on the way to the party.

He sat next to Dudley in the backseat. As they were pulling onto the freeway, Vernon turned around, and his eyes bore holes into Harry's face. "Not a single thing, boy," he told Harry. "Not one single bit of funny business, or you'll find yourself in an orphanage faster than you can say 'unfair,' no matter what Petunia says. You understand?"

Harry nodded. Not that he needed that little pep-talk; he wasn't planning on doing anything bad on this trip. First, he _wanted_ to go to the zoo. He never got to go _anywhere_. Second...the Dursleys were big and the Dursleys were mean, but when Harry caused them pain, he felt as if he were hurting a family of cows, like they didn't realize what they did to him. Of course, that didn't stop him from gaining satisfaction...but they were _cows_. Poor, stupid cows, almost unknowing in their cruelty…

* * *

The tigers were lying lazily in their cage, far from the wide eyes of Dudley and Piers. The two ugly boys placed their hands on the cage; it rattled. The tigers ignored them.

"Make them move," Dudley told his father.

Vernon rattled on the cage, too. The tigers perked up at this, probably due to the large helpings of meat that could be had if only Vernon were to join them…Harry imagined what it would be like. Pushing Uncle Vernon up and over the cage, watching him get devoured by the creatures. For a moment, he felt like grinning. Then he shook his head, sickened.

 _Cows_ , Harry thought. _They're cows. They don't know any better, remember?_

As the family (plus Harry) walked off to the gorillas, Harry kept himself from thinking what he knew came next...

Unfortunately, it's often the cows that get slaughtered first.

* * *

The reptile house offered relief from the heat. Dark, damp and mysterious, with large, artificially lit tanks set into the walls at neat intervals. Snakes and lizards and frogs and turtles…

Snakes were a favorite of Harry's. He thought boa constrictors especially fine. The sheer size of them, and the _power_. Sometimes when he lay in bed at night, Harry imagined he was a boa constrictor, crushing the life out of Dudley. Or Vernon. Or Petunia. Or anyone, really; the satisfaction came out in dollops with little provocation.

"Look at those beady little eyes, Dudley. Look at them." Vernon pointed to the King Cobra, which was lazing about like a giant gold snake skin, plus the snake. "Look just like Harry's, eh?"

Dudley laughed and clapped his hands. Piers tried to mimic this, but his hands missed.

Vernon continued: "And it has a tiny head, too, like it doesn't have a brain."

"Just like Harry!" said Piers.

Harry, who had been looking in the boa constrictor aisle, ignored this. He had learned to block out the sound of Vernon's voice from years of living with the man. This was nothing new. And this meant nothing to Harry, who was aware of the depths of Vernon's idiocy. _Don't take it seriously_ , he told himself. _The man is so stupid he doesn't deserve to give criticism. Don't listen_ …He went back to reading about his boa constrictor.

"I wonder if it has a mate," Vernon was saying.

Petunia made a face and pretended to gag. "Oh, no, Vernon," she said. "It's much too ugly, don't you think?"

Dudley and Piers: "Like Harry, like Harry!"

Harry felt a little piece of something hot, something deep in his chest, begin to rise. _Block it out. They're just trying to get to you. Block it out._ Harry took a deep breath, turned back to the snake…

"I hope it dies," said Vernon. "Something that stupid surely shouldn't be allowed to breed, don't you think? Don't you think, Petunia? Look—" And he rapped on the glass, tapped it again and again, hard with his knuckles. "It's not even listening, I doubt a single thought goes through its stupid mind all day, such an empty skull in there…supposed to be venomous, but what does that mean when you're too stupid to bite?"

"Like Harry! Like Harry!"

The sound of rapping, sound of tapping—Vernon knocking on the tank.

The sound of hitting—Vernon still with his fist on the glass. Ringing in Harry's ears, with the echoes of Dudley and Piers: like Harry, like Harry!

The hotness in Harry's chest was blooming. Now it had spread, he felt it in his mind, this nub of hate that screamed out for relief. He clenched his fists, tried to clear his mind, but rapid thoughts kept flitting through—he shouldn't have come today, shouldn't have come to the zoo, he wasn't prepared, wasn't ready to prevent a loss of control like this. He knew he wasn't safe, but he didn't know why—he was just a ten year old kid, but—

Knock knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock—

And suddenly, the glass that had once been solid existed no longer. Vernon's knuckles hit air.

"Huh?" Vernon's voice sounded stupid, nothing more.

A flash of molten gold.

Then the snake was on him, and he didn't speak again.

* * *

That night, Harry sat alone in his cupboard. It was too small for him to pace, or he would have done it. It was too quiet for him to scream, or he would have done it. Instead, he had to make do with a stress ball he had made out of dead spiders. With his left hand, he squeezed this. With his right hand he composed a letter.

 _Dear Aunt Petunia…_

He knew that the Dursleys, or whoever remained of them, weren't safe around him. He wasn't safe around _them_. If the afternoon had shown anything at all, it was that he could not trust himself to remain in control...

Harry had killed a man.

Harry had killed a man, and he didn't even know _how_. One second, the glass existed; the next it was gone, not a trace left, as the forensics team had pointed out. Like the tank had never even _been_ there…

Vernon Dursley had been transported to the hospital immediately following the arrival of the police; that is to say, after several dozen minutes of long, agonizing arguing, because the zookeepers that Harry had gone to for help refused to believe that a cobra had simply _left_ its cage. By the time they arrived on the scene and called the emergency hotline, Vernon's face was the color of breastmilk, and his breathing almost nonexistent.

Petunia, Dudley, and Piers rode in the ambulance, when it arrived. Harry, in a state of near shock, had made to get in, too.

A white-faced Petunia pushed him back out. " _You_ —" she rasped, spittle flying from her mouth into Harry's own, "Find your own way home, you—you _menace_ —"

Harry took one look at her, and walked away to the police. He asked for a ride. They granted him one, but questioned why the Dursleys had left a ten year old child alone at the zoo.

"The ambulance was full," he told one officer.

"I didn't want to intrude, being the nephew and all," he told another.

"They think I'm food, okay? They think I'm a banana, and they just carry me around for kicks. Yes, they have problems, any more stupid things you want to know?"

After this outburst, the questions stopped, and Harry was taken home in near silence.

The police, after concluding the day's investigation, had called it a fluke. "Must have made a mistake with the tank," said Officer Banks, as he dropped Harry off. "Zookeepers getting a little _crazy_ …" He made a cuckoo sign, laughed.

Harry didn't laugh. He knew it wasn't an accident.

 _Dear Aunt Petunia…I am sorry for all that I have done, and have decided to leave your family alone._

Surely it was time for him to leave the Dursleys. As crazy as they were, as horrible, they didn't deserve this. No one deserved this.

 _I know that you and Vernon never wanted me. However, I did not intend for things to turn out in the way that they did._

Harry tapped the paper, thinking. It was true, he was sorry for what had happened. Despite the anger, despite the rage that was often kept hidden deep in his heart, he hadn't wanted Vernon _dead._..right?

 _But you did want him dead_ , a little voice said in the back of his head. _You dreamt about killing him every night, remember? Crushing him with your boa constrictor embrace...you feel guilty, you know, but you_ wanted _it._

"That's not true," Harry said aloud. "That was just—I wasn't serious. I never would have acted on it, even if I had the power—"

 _And yet somehow, you got angry, and now Vernon is dead. Explain_ that.

Once again, Harry remembered the heat coursing through his bloodstream. He remembered what it had felt like to channel it, to release it...he remembered that it had felt _good_.

 _And what's so terrible there?_ asked the voice. _After all, he wanted_ you _dead. He told you that a_ number _of times._

"He wouldn't have acted on it, either—he was just trying to rile me up—to make me angry—"

 _Or was he? Was he_ really? _Even the time that he tried to slip poison into your breakfast?_

"That was a joke. Petunia put a stop to it—"

 _Some joke, that. And considering that she only made him stop because the neighbors would talk, can you really say that she's innocent of killing intent, either?_

"She wouldn't—she's my aunt! She's my mother's sister, and she isn't interested in _really_ hurting me, no matter what she claimed. And Vernon wasn't either! He—he just—"

But then, without warning, another memory slid into Harry's whirling mind: Christmas Day, 1987, with snow on the ground and a fire blazing in the Dursley's home. Dudley had gotten 30 presents, Harry remembered, and he had gotten none. And then, that was when Vernon had come over and sat down beside him. Beside Harry. In his hands, a long, thin package…

Harry had ripped the wrapping off eagerly. A black cylinder rolled out.

"Uncle Vernon?" he asked.

"Like this." Vernon picked up the gun, pointed it at his own head. "Bang!" he said. "Now you try."

Then Petunia had come in with Harry holding the gun and panicked. Before Vernon could explain to her what had happened, the police were on their way. And later, everyone thought it was a great joke; at least, the Dursleys did.

Harry, on the other hand...

Harry had been too young to really understand what this meant. But looking back...looking back, he could see it in a whole new light.

Did he mean it? Did Vernon really want Harry, at the age of seven, dead? Could he? Could you want a child dead, one that you had raised? Vernon had never loved him, Harry knew that, but want him dead?

Maybe not. But maybe so.

Once more, Harry saw the glass fall away. Saw Vernon take his last breath. Saw the snake take its first bite. He enjoyed it.

 _And good riddance_ , spoke the voice. _He deserved to die. He was even making fun of you, wasn't he? You gave him every chance._

This time, Harry didn't try and argue. He knew there was nothing to say.

He put down the pen. In his fist he balled up his half finished note. It was the thought of Vernon; it made the rage bloom again.

"Goodbye, Harry Potter," he said, and smiled. He wasn't crazy. He was just talking to the old Harry, the one who would've cared.

* * *

The Dursleys didn't come in that night. Harry helped himself to food in the fridge, steaming up some nice cauliflower to go with the wild pheasant he had caught pecking around in the backyard.

Outside, this conversation was taking place:

"It is everything that I feared, Minerva."

"But...but Albus! Lily and James's son. Surely he's not—surely he can't be—"

"I am sure of nothing, and you should not be, either. Harry Potter has been living in an abusive household for eleven years. We should not presume to know what changes this might have wrought in the boy. I myself have been worried for quite some time that an event such as this would happen."

"Why, Albus? Why did you allow it, if you knew?"

"Minerva, I did not know. And I hoped with every fiber of my being that this would not come to pass. But now that it has, our way forward is clear."

"You—you can't mean—?"

"I do. Harry Potter _must_ not be allowed to set foot in Hogwarts. I...I have gone through this before, and the world knows how that turned out. I do not plan to make the same mistake again."

Long silence.

"And Professor Luthar? What are we to do about him?"

"He's dead, Minerva. Well. Even I didn't expect—hmm. Perhaps the boy has a particularly strong appetite for live game. It often is one of the earliest signs of Dark wizardry, you know. I've witnessed it in several cases...Gellert, for instance, had a great affinity for elephant thigh..."

Not long after, a tall man and a severe woman rose from the bushes, and left as quietly as they had come. Disappeared into nothingness and all that, leaving no trace. Like the glass...

Inside, Harry kept chewing his pheasant, and he had a cold grin plastered onto his face. While he did this, his mind whirred. Petunia and Dudley would be coming back soon, and there were certain changes that he believed it was time to bring about...


	2. Chapter 2

The Dursleys didn't arrive at Number Four until the next afternoon. Harry heard the car door slam, the sound of footsteps coming up the patio. He arranged himself on Petunia's favorite couch in a nonchalant position, and made his his face flat and cold.

Dudley and Petunia entered the room several minutes later, and by the sight of them, Harry could tell that Vernon would not be coming home. For a second, he felt a flash of guilt, but then he pushed down on it, hard, until he was certain it was gone for good. Vernon did not deserve his remorse. Petunia did not deserve his sympathy. Dudley…Dudley was less to blame; he was hardly older than Harry, and had been encouraged by his parents. Yet Dudley had tormented Harry all the same. He had punched him, kicked him, held his head underwater while Harry flailed...Harry looked at Dudley, and found that he felt nothing.

Dudley was crying as he collapsed into a chair. But Harry ignored him; he only had eyes for Petunia Dursley, who was glaring at Harry like he was the devil. For a moment there was silence. Then Petunia said, her voice filled with unsuppressed rage, "Do you understand what you've done, you worthless boy? Ever since you appeared in our lives, I knew you were trouble. V-Vernon, he knew you were trouble, too. He wanted to toss you in an orphanage, and I protested. Now I see that I should have listened. Or maybe I should have drowned you as a baby; that would've saved us all some happiness."

Harry met this speech with impassive eyes. Underneath his mask, his blood boiled. So she thought he should die, too? It seemed that his suspicions were nicely confirmed. Well, he would make her pay, for that, and for all the things she had done. For all of the punishments and the beatings and the verbal abuse...

Petunia was still speaking. "Get up, you worthless boy. Get up! You sit there on that couch, your feet up, like the ungrateful little animal that you are—well, things are going to change around here. I'm sick and tired of you and your—of you and your—" Her voice was quivering with anger, and she started striding back and forth, agitated. "GET TO YOUR CUPBOARD, YOU SHIT! GO! GO!"

Harry continued to stare back impassively, as Petunia took deep breaths. Then he said, "No."

Petunia froze. "What did you just say?"

"I said 'no,' Petunia." Harry smiled coldly. "You think that you can treat me like dirt? You think that you can push me around, that you can beat me until I bleed? That I am your servant? That's how I've always lived, but things are going to change now."

Petunia's face turned red and blotchy. "You—don't you dare—don't you dare—after what you've done—"

Harry stood up, and Petunia flinched back. "He deserved it," said Harry. "You were bad, and he was worse, and he deserved it." He stepped closer to her, so that she was within arm's reach. "And you know what, Petunia? Talk to me like that again, and you'll go the same way."

Petunia stood, and Petunia stared. Her eyes bore holes into Harry's, while the color on her cheeks intensified, until—

"Dudley," she snapped. "We're leaving."

Dudley, who had been sniffling into his shirt while he watched the confrontation, looked dumbstruck. "What?"

"You heard me. We're leaving. Harry can have the house, he can have whatever he wants, I don't care as long as we never have to see him again. Now pack your things, because we're getting far away from here."

"But—but—"

"Now."

Dudley made to get up out of his chair, but Harry strode over, and pushed him back in. "Stay down, Dudley," he said calmly. "I'm not done." Then he turned back to Petunia, and he could see it in her eyes, in her posture: the woman was scared...of him. A rather pleasant turn of events, on the whole.

"Dudley will immediately clear out his second bedroom of all his possessions; it's my room, now. Following that, Petunia, you will clean it, and you will do a good job. In the morning, you will call Smeltings and cancel Dudley's application. He does not deserve to go anywhere that I cannot, and as you and Vernon refused to send me…" Harry let the sentence trail off. "Now, neither you nor Dudley will leave the house unless I say. I expect that we will need food sometime soon; I will put together a list, and you will go to the store, while Dudley remains here. Any attempt to run, and your son may not survive. In fact, any disobedience will result in something similar to Vernon's plight...or worse. While Dudley works on his task, you should probably get to fixing me up some dinner; I'm rather hungry after such a taxing day. Do you understand?"

Petunia looked at Harry some more and said nothing, but Harry understood it to mean her submission. Something had changed between them, in the 24 hours since Vernon's attack; what she had seen, what Harry had done to Vernon, that had shaken Petunia on a deep level. Someday soon Harry would sit down and try to figure it all out. What he could do. What it might mean. But for now…

"Then get to it."

* * *

Over the next few days, the household fell into a routine. Petunia and Dudley would wake up in the morning and begin their chores. By the time Harry came downstairs (from his now spotlessly clean second-story bedroom), breakfast would be ready. While he ate, Harry would make a list of all the things that needed to be done for the day, occasionally asking for Petunia's input, but getting only a stony silence. That was okay; Harry knew that it would take her time to get used to the way things were going to be. And he also knew that she was still mourning Vernon's death. So he let it slide.

After that, Harry would retreat to his bedroom, where he would relax while reading books on any topics he could find. Dudley's bookshelf was abysmal in its selection, of course, but Harry was able to gain a nice array of nonfiction texts from the local library. And once he'd snatched Petunia's credit card, he established a deal with the local used bookshop, in which he would call the owner up on the phone, ask for a particular book, and have it delivered to the Dursley's front door later that day. The deliveries cost a hefty fee, but it beat walking, and Harry felt that Petunia certainly had money to spend. Plus, Harry needed the knowledge the books could give him. They were necessary for the future, for the plans that had been taking shape ever since that night in his cupboard…

Because lying there, in the darkness, stewing over his anger at Petunia and Vernon and Dudley, Harry had come to a realization. The realization was this: the world wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Harry's parents had died, leaving him with his odious relatives and their abusive attitudes. It wasn't fair that Harry had been forced to live in a tiny, cramped space, while a bedroom sat, filled only with Dudley's toys. And it wasn't fair that he had never had any friends, because to be friends with Harry meant feeling the wrath of Dudley.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Acknowledge. But then consider what came next.

That unfairness, it existed. But that didn't mean that Harry couldn't fight back. He could change the world, so that those who hurt him felt retribution, had it carried down to their secure little sanctuaries from on high. He could also change the world so that those who were once able to hurt him no longer could. They would be forced into hiding, into submission, before his might.

All of this, it led to a question: how? Harry had big goals, but how would he achieve them?

"Power, of course," Harry had said, that night in his cupboard. "If I can gain power, if I can gain wealth, if I can gain followers…that's when things will become real."

That was it, then. Harry wanted to get power. And in order to that, he would listen to the old adage. First things first. If you wanted power, then you would need…

Knowledge.

The rest would flow from there. Well, from there and, if his suspicions were correct, one other thing...

Harry had fallen asleep with a smile on his face, but, unlike his breathing, his brain did not quiet; it was already grinding away, preparing itself for the days ahead, when Harry began to walk a new path. A path to strength.

Maybe even a path to darkness.

* * *

Evening. The evening that was five days, six hours, and fifteen minutes after Vernon's death, give or take.

Harry stood in front of his bedroom window, and watched the setting sun. The weak rays painted the suburban picket fences red, washed the garages and houses and cars with bloody hues.

In the corner of his eye, Harry saw motion, and he turned to behold a handsome bird. A Barn owl, if he wasn't mistaken. Its wings moved in powerful beats, and Harry watched it descend low over the backyard. It's talons appeared to burdened down by something small and square. Like a letter.

A flash lit the darkening sky, and then the owl was...gone. Gone, leaving no evidence of its existence aside from a few pieces of fluff that floated down lazily where it had once been…

Except for one other thing. The parcel, the letter that had been in its talons, that didn't disappear with the owl. That plummeted down, down, until it landed squarely in the backyard.

Harry dashed away from the window, and took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

Just before, as Harry watched the setting sun, a conversation was taking place in the backyard of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Albus Dumbledore, tall and powerful, watched the skies. Minerva McGonagall, not quite as tall but similarly serious, did the same.

"What is happening, Albus?" Minerva didn't necessarily expect an answer from the inscrutable old wizard, but it didn't hurt to ask.

Albus's eyes never left the sky, but he did say, "Surely you have realized by now, Minerva? We are here to prevent Harry Potter from ever attending Hogwarts. The dangers involved...if only you knew…"

"So you said earlier, Albus. Yet I fail to understand why we are here, in Harry Potter's backyard, staring around for God knows what."

Albus gave a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. After a moment, he said, "Rubeus did not listen to my warnings. He insisted on sending Harry the standard letter, even after I asked him to desist. I did not wish to use magic on the man, nor did I wish to command him to cease, especially because I do not wish to draw attention to Harry's...unique situation. Rubeus is not well known for his discretion, and when Harry does not come to Hogwarts, questions will be asked. Better that Rubeus is kept in the dark."

"But what are you going to do about it, Albus? There are those in the community who will wonder where their savior has gone, and surely Hagrid is not going to be satisfied by half-truths. Stop Mr. Potter from finding out about Hogwarts, and you will have only dealt with a small part of the problem."

Dumbledore looked down at her, and said imperiously, "Do not think that I haven't considered these issues, Minerva. I have ideas of how to proceed, but I will need several more days to consider the details."

"And while you do that, Mr. Potter will be left to be abused by his relatives?" Minerva's voice sounded harsher than normal. She had only discovered in recent days what the Headmaster had sentenced Harry to, and while she kept her opinions mostly to herself, she couldn't help it if anger occasionally bled through. What the Dursleys had done to the boy...well, she wasn't surprised by the way he was turning out. It all seemed incredibly avoidable to her. Plenty of wizarding families would have been willing to take him in…

"It will only be for a few more days, Minerva, until I am able to find other arrangements!" For once, Albus sounded slightly shaken.

Let him feel guilt, Minerva said to herself. After what he did. "Well, they'd better—"

But she cut off, as Albus raised a hand. He stared at the sky, more intense than ever, until—wingbeats. An owl was coming towards them—

Then the wand was in Albus's hand, and a flash of power split the sky.

The owl disappeared, and the letter fell to the ground.

Minerva found herself feeling slightly disturbed. "What did you do to the bird, Albus?"

"I sent it back to Hogwarts, of course." Albus favored her with another smile. "Surely you don't think that I would kill it?"

Minerva shook her head, and said nothing of what she felt. She just didn't know what to think anymore.

Albus stepped over to retrieve the letter from where it had fallen. The tall man had long strides, and would soon have it in his grasp—

But a hand appeared. It darted down, plucked up the parcel, and placed it in a pocket. Then Minerva saw the eyes, the cold, green eyes, staring at Dumbledore.

"Hello again, Albus," said Harry Potter. "I think it's time we were properly introduced."


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter stared into the face of Albus Dumbledore, and did not flinch. It would be foolish to show weakness in a situation such as this. Not when the old man's machinations involved ruthless manipulation; weakness would not get Harry pity, it would only bring him pain.

"Harry Potter," said Albus, after a time. "I'll admit that I did not expect to see you so soon."

"No?"

"No." Harry saw something dark flit across Albus's features, and the man said, "You are not surprised to see me. How much do you know?"

For a second, Harry considered lying, but then he pushed the idea away. While he hadn't been intending to confront the old man so soon, while perhaps retrieving the letter had been a mistake, it was too late to turn back now. He'd been overeager, upon seeing the owl vanish. He'd been reckless. But the best he could do now was present his own knowledge, and hope that this Albus would be willing to reciprocate. That, or he'd let something slip. "After the zoo, I heard you and your friend—Minerva, I think her name was—in the garden. You mentioned wizardry, and something called Hogwarts. And how I would not be allowed to go there." Albus and Minerva shared a look. Harry saw shock on the woman's face. Albus remained impassive, but then again, perhaps he was always that way. Harry went on, "I thought about what you said, and what happened with the snake, and put two and two together." He made sure to speak as firmly as possible, "When I made the glass disappear, that was wizardry. I am a wizard. And Hogwarts is a training ground, a school of some sort."

Harry had worked out these hypotheses over the last few days, while Dudley and Petunia did chores. Of course, Harry was slightly less certain than he let on; he had come up with several other explanations for the incident at the zoo and the presence of old people in his garden, including various hallucinations. However, the hallucinations would have to have been extensive enough to go back several years, because once he realized what to look for, Harry remembered various other events that smacked of this 'wizardry.' Times when Dudley had attempted to hurt him and Harry had found himself in places that he didn't remember running to. Times when Petunia or Vernon had tried to make him do something particularly horrible, but were inexplicably knocked unconscious. Add in their irrational fear of any words that related to 'magic,' and Harry thought he had a pretty solid explanation for what was going on.

Albus was surveying Harry now, over half-moon glasses. His eyes bore into Harry's, delving deeper, like a whirlpool. "Say that you're correct, Harry. Say that you are a wizard. What does that mean to you?"

Harry took this as confirmation that he was on the right track, and felt a frisson of excitement slide down his spine. But he remembered the discussion that he had overheard, where Albus had said that Harry would not be allowed to attend this 'Hogwarts.' Perhaps this was a test of sorts. Albus was weighing him, seeing what he was made of. So he chose his words carefully. "I would like the chance to develop my full potential," Harry said slowly. "My whole life, I've been beaten down, told that I wasn't good enough for anything. But if—if I really am a wizard, then I can prove them all wrong." And it wasn't technically a falsehood. Harry did want to develop his full potential. He did want to confront those who mistreated him. But the 'full potential' that he spoke of...well, it wasn't entirely academic.

Albus was still looking at Harry. "That is an interesting answer, Harry," he said finally. "But do you think you can be trusted to hold the power that comes with being a wizard?"

Harry pretended to consider this. "I think," he said, "that I will grow to bear the responsibility. And it would give me a chance to have a new life. To make something of myself, to change."

Albus closed his eyes. He appeared to be thinking deeply, and Harry saw Minerva watching them both. "Albus," said Minerva, after a minute, "surely you're not still—"

The old man held up a hand. Then his eyes were open again, and more piercing than before, and slightly colder. "Your words are persuasive, Harry," he said. "However, they are not enough. I remember a time when I met a boy similar to yourself, one who would have argued similarly. One who went on to become the most feared wizard who ever lived…"

"Albus! Let's talk about this!"

But the old man's mind was apparently made up, and he ignored Minerva's pleading. "I _am_ sorry about what I must do, Harry. While I am under no illusions that my regret will be a comfort to you, at least know that I do not like this. But it is for the Greater Good."

Harry's mind whirred, and he clenched his fists. Apparently he hadn't passed Albus's test, whatever it was. And now the man was going to...what? Kill him? Imprison him? If Albus truly was a wizard, then there was little that Harry could do to stop the man. Harry was young and untrained, and Albus looked to have decades, maybe centuries, of experience. This was not looking good...

Albus pulled out what looked like a long stick of wood. A wand.

One wave, and Harry was immobile. He tried to speak, to plead with the man, but it was too late. He hadn't been prepared. He'd made a mistake in confronting the wizard. Harry had been so eager to understand that he'd run straight into this disaster of a situation, and now he had no options left.

Albus was speaking, "When you wake up, you will remember nothing of this conversation, and nothing of the past week. You will believe that your uncle Vernon died in a car accident, as will your aunt and cousin. You will find that they have an excessive fondness for you now. Perhaps it will even be love. I will check on you periodically, but you will not see me. It is best if you and the Wizarding World remain apart, at least for now. If you truly mature, then maybe one day I will be able to take you in; take you in and train you, as a wizard of the Light. But based on what I have seen, that is unlikely. The path is set for you, young Harry. It was set as soon as I condemned you to Vernon and Petunia's home, and I dare not tamper so much as to alter that..."

The blue eyes looked off into the darkening sky, towards the stars that were beginning to sparkle high above. Then they locked on the green, and the wand came to rest on Harry's forehead. "I wish that it could be some other way. But that is not possible." There was an unfathomable sadness in the old man's eyes, but Harry didn't care about that. He wanted to remember, he wanted to go to Hogwarts and become a wizard, he wanted to gain power, he had so many grand plans that he had only decided upon in the last week, and there was no guarantee that he would come up with them again—

Harry saw the wand begin to glow, and then felt power surging into his forehead, like electricity. He searched for a way to stop it, to put up mental barriers. But he could feel the thing, the magic, worming its way into his mind. Desperately, Harry took his most important thoughts and focused on them, holding onto the hope that maybe something would survive—

 _I'm Harry Potter, boy wizard. I want to go to Hogwarts, where I will gain power._

 _I'm Harry Potter, boy wizard. I want to go to Hogwarts, where I will gain power._

 _I'm Harry Potter, boy wizard. I want to go...want to go to Hogwarts…_

But as tightly as Harry held on, his consciousness was slipping away...his eyes began to close, even as he felt Albus carry him into Number Four and place him on his bed. Even as he heard Petunia and Dudley yelling in fear, then fall silent. Even as Minerva reached into his pocket and drew out the letter that he had retrieved, before slowly walking out of the room, tears in her eyes. He felt Albus remove the forced paralysis, but it was too late. Harry couldn't move even if he wanted to.

 _I'm Harry Potter…_

 _Boy...Wizard…_

 _I want…_

 _Power…_

Harry said those words as he fell into nothingness, until they were just syllables and sounds that held no meaning. But as the world went the same way as the words, he held on, quite literally. Harry kept his fists clenched atop his bedspread, because he could still feel them, crumpled up in his left hand: the sheets of paper that he had managed to remove from the envelope when Albus had closed his eyes. The one on top read thus:

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

Then the world met darkness, and Harry knew no more.


End file.
